


Dum Spiro, Spero (While I Breathe, I Hope)

by zoomzoomzuppa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoomzoomzuppa/pseuds/zoomzoomzuppa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Many men go fishing their entire lives without knowing it is not fish they are after.” - Henry David Thoreau </p><p>She spends so much time running she forgets how to walk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dum Spiro, Spero (While I Breathe, I Hope)

“Many men go fishing their entire lives without knowing it is not fish they are after.”   
 _Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)_  
\--

  
  
  
 _“Fine, leave then. I don’t need you anyway.”_ __  
  
_She stopped, frozen in her tracks, the words chilling whatever hopes she had from her bones. “I never said you needed me,” she whispered, hands clenched on either side, neck long and exposed, vulnerable, proud, refusing to glance back. “And I never said I needed you, either.” She waited, not expecting any response, and took a long drawl of a deep breath, greedy with the need for her lungs and heart to composure themselves. “I simply said I loved you, but I see you don’t need that either.”_ __  
  
_“Whatever I do need, it certainly isn’t you. Leave, I can do this on my own.”_ __  
  
_“That’s just it, you can’t – but as with everything else, you’ll only realize that when it’s too late.”_ __  
  
_She swept herself off her feet and out the door before he could quip and snap back._

* * *

  
  
First it had been Galway – a tireless college town on the west coast of Ireland that had sung her song, aching to sway her to the rhythm of the beautiful Galway Bay beats, and the soft sounds of folk music and traditional Irish songs floating off the water, trying to make her hips sing in a way only he had shown her before. But the music on the lifting edges of water paralyzed her swaying hips as his silky hands had once pressed their tips into her skin, swaying with her to the beat.

  
  
The thumping drums and soft, ticking dialects tickled her as she slid her spinning, unknowing feet in a raw and anxious motion, and she felt more alive in the thrumming of their lively beats in west Africa’s Ghana than she had when he pushed the beating drum of her heart to its racing end. Yet there was his heartbeat, shuttering with each breath of hers as she shook, her legs uncaringly tired and wavering underneath the pressure of the movement. The dust flew in volumes, soaking into her until she felt her pigment had helped her transform, but her heartbeat was racing as he’d made it race, and the rhythm was a backdrop, a reminder throbbing away against her battered remains, and she felt her feet beating to the rhythm of ‘run’ again. 

  
  
The ‘run’ took her further, further still, to the quieter, simpler life of Yokohama, Japan, where culture seeped into her skin and forced her to center in on the easy, the routine – the things she had always used before to get by. Easy inhale, easy exhale, easy intake of knowing and not knowing and not needing to know past the moment she saw the sunrise and the sunset, and yet in those quiet hues of gentle orange and subtle pink, dipping into the horizon she was hoping to be her savior, she saw his disposition, his lips soft to hers in the quiet of their most sincere and genuine moments, and she lost the tranquility she thought she could live by. 

  
  
She was spinning, spinning, spinning at the speed of sound until her feet found a solid slow rhythm on the dirt roads of Nardò, Italy.

 

* * *

  
  
With all of the whirling she’d committed herself to, her breath was caught and hitched in her throat. Despite the promise of quiet and quaint, of thrumming music, of swaying hips, despite the desire to find a new hope in between the lines of the map, she watched her feet as if they were ready to run off without her again. But then it happened; the music melted the chill on her bones, and nothing mattered beside the sunrise, the sunset, the waves of the river as it slowly ebbed her toes at the shore and the night sounds of the locals with their honest music rocking down her soul. 

  
  
On her first day, she roamed until her feet bled, ignoring even the slightest remnants and shreds of elements that could lead to him; on her first night, she slept better in a tiny bed at the back of a small cottage than she had when she’d slept at school, better still than she had in his arms, and finally dreamt of nothing. 

  
  
In her first week - by day - she learned about the ravenous young lads and their appetites for leaving and finding wealth; she learned about the soft ways the young girls would find their solace in knowing the lads would find their arms and their love more telling then wealth ever could. In her first week - by night - she watched the young couples find love in the honours of their families singing songs written before their time, their hearts on their sleeves as they danced under the stars, and for the first time in a long while, she could admire love and desire instead of shun away from it. 

  
  
Her first week turned into three, then her weeks turned into months, and days began to mould into a rustic routine of easy movement, so far from running she’d nearly forgotten when it felt like to walk. Though aloof in nature, so far from the painstaking attempts at modernization elsewhere, the town was open and devoted to her, as she soon became to it, and a home she never knew could exist grounded her. 

  
The fire of her neighbor Iliana’s front yard occupied her nightlife, as they sang songs and toasted with the richest wines her lips had ever savoured. It was this way, swayed with just a single glass of homegrown wine, her body humming with a satisfaction Italy-grown, that she stumbled upon him, sitting with his fishing pole. 

  
  
“Sera, bella.”  _(Evening, beautiful.)_  Although his age showed in his wrinkles, his eyes held a youthful warmth and his hands held an ageless grace and his voice sang like new lovers, and she was drawn to him, curious more-so than she would’ve thought possible. 

  
  
“Sera, Signore,”  _(Evening, sir.)_ her voice met his, lofting over the river he was basking in the moonlight glow of. “Stai pesca?”  _(You’re fishing?)_

  
  
“Sì, come sempre.”  _(Yes, as always.)_  He smiled through his words as he let one hand slide from the handle on the pole and to the moist grass, giving it a soft pat for her to sit. "Tu no?”  _(Are not you?)_

  
  
Although suddenly puzzled, she drew herself to the ground beside him, her legs and knees to her chest. Just as any other night had passed before, so did this one, the silence they shared contemplative but comfortable, the moon their only light to remind them of the world they lived in. Every so often, he’d slowly reel in, and then, with a gentile stroke of kindness she couldn’t put a name to, let the reel unwind back into the river. 

  
  
Time passed listlessly, their companionship settling something insider her she couldn’t familiarize or name, and as moments passed, she felt her body fall into a meditative ease, her pensive features enlightened and softened in the luminescent heavens beaming down on them. 

  
  
Evening crisply grew to the quietest moments of dawn, and the elegant hues peeked over the copious trees that sat at the other bank of the body of water, and the old man reeled in one last time, grabbed a hat she hadn’t seen sitting beside him, and took his very tiny, very antique and traditional looking tackle box into his opposite hand. “Ciao, bella,”  _(Goodbye, beautiful)_  his voice offered; “Ci vediamo presto.”  _(See you soon.)_

  
  
Her brow furrowed, unsure and confused as he slowly walked away in a timely pace that begot him better than she thought possible.  _Soon._

  
  
 _Presto._

  
  
She hadn’t expected him to mean it; she didn’t realize the powerful truth he spoke until the following night, after another simple glass of wine and a nice meal, fluttering by in her colourful sundress, her feet found her at his side, at once accepting each other as a purposeful placement of scenery for the bank of the river. 

  
  
“You are, very beautiful.” 

  
  
Her head didn’t whip to glance at him, as it should’ve; she didn’t gasp at his crisp and heavily accented knowledge of her native tongue. Instead her head tilted to the side slowly, questioning his relaxed demeanor. 

  
  
“I noticed you in your first week here. You seem to have been running for quite some time, bella,” his words held no malice, just a simple smile, and although her heart skipped a beat at the mere thought of being as transparent as it seemed, she let herself sit beside a man she discovered she’d trusted the moment she’d seen him. 

  
  
“I-”

  
  
“Bella, bella, bella,” he chided her, tongue rolling with the fluidity of his elderly chastisement. Her lips grew thin, a line, and for a moment an ember of her old fire flickered in the pit of her stomach, the bite that used to sit at the tip of her tongue at every occasion nearly toppled from between her lips, but his placating reservation froze her. “Did you know, that la Luna, is il simbolo del vero amore?” _(…the moon, is the symbol of true love?)_

  
  
“Come mai?”  _(How so?)_  Instinctively, she drew closer to him, a child sitting at the foot of a storyteller in anxious wait. He turned to her, smile small and covering his elderly mirth. 

  
“Many people believe il sole,  _(the sun)_ bright, strong and burning, is true love. It is not.” He paused for a moment, eyes downcast as though he were carefully picking his words from the grass beneath him. “Il sole is meant to… how you say, simboleggiare  _(symbolize)_ , love, but it is passione, lussuria  _(passion, lust)_ – desire. It burns, and burns, and burns constantly. But la Luna…” he shook his head. “La Luna turni  _(turns)_ \- changes. It is never the same night to night, but it is always there, and it riflette  _(reflects)_  the passione  _(passion)_ of il sole, giving love truth.” 

  
  
For a moment she was silent, first staring at the silhouette of this curious man she’d come to encounter and then gazing at the crescent of the moon hanging at its height in the sky. As the breeze blew through the untamed mane of curls, covering her eyes, she viewed the night heavens through a shadowed perspective, her true love shaded in the paleness of the moon.

  
  
“La Luna è il mio vero amore.”  _(The moon is my true love.)_ Her voice rang over the water as she watched the ripples.

  
  
His chuckle sank down into her, filling her with peace where anger would’ve have so easily seeped in previously; as such a laugh at her outlandishly romantic statement would’ve sent her to a frenzy of disgust any day of her prior life. Her own heart found it right to laugh, soft and agreeing with her companion as she contemplated the severity and yet the absurdity of her announcement. 

  
  
“You surprise me, bella signora,  _(beautifully lady)_ with every breath you take.” He reeled in his pole, then struck it back out to the river. 

  
  
 _“Dum spiro, spero.” (Latin: When I breathe, I hope.)_

  
  
“Bene a sentire.”  _(Good to hear.)_  The certainty of his assurance again left her gazing at him in wonderment, her curiousness growing and evolving as moments passed. 

  
  
At the end of their second evening spent, as she ambled back in a haze of new thoughts of love, truth, the moon and old men that sat at riverbanks fishing at night, she resigned herself to not seeing the old man again. The harried thoughts that sank through her caught her off guard, and that instinct to run was sitting at the back of her mind, waiting to race to her heart and through her veins until she wore out both sole and soul. 

  
  
She was able to settle a week gone by without yearning for the comforting conviviality this new wise, old friend offered. After night had fallen, meals had been had, wine had been drunk and music had been played, a movement of feet and soul found her at his side, his courteous and swift thrust to the river beckoning her to sit. 

  
  
“Did you know, bella, that sometimes all you ever need in life is the next moment?” 

  
  
“So e non lo so,”  _(I know and I don’t know)_ came from her, honestly, before she could suppress herself, and with it, went any reservations she had about him. 

  
  
“So-so. E così va la vita.”  _(I know, I know. And so life goes.)_

  
  
He threw his pole back, watching the tip plunk into the river with a gratifying splash. Moments passed in silence, the moon finding serenity in their peacefulness as it often did. 

  
  
“My wife, resto il suo Dio,”  _(God rest her)_  he kissed his fingers to the sky, making the sign of the Cross over his heart, “used to say to me, _‘Emiliano, non devi fermarti solo per i problemi, devi fermarti anche per le soluzioni, o non riuscirai a sopravvivere’ (Emiliano, do not stop just for the problems, stop for solutions, too, or do not live.)_  I was foolish when I was younger, immaturo, much like these boys now.” He paused to smile, the twinkle that was permanently settled in his eyes hazed with the tears of the memory. “But Corinna, she always waited for me to grow as she had, to follow her lead, and although it took me some time... I did.” He reeled in, then flicked his wrist, the twine unraveling and splashing into the water again. “There was never any stopping with us once I’d learned to find solutions instead of problems everywhere I went.” 

  
  
Her eyes flickered for a moment. 

  
  
 _Grow up. Take responsibility. Find the solution you’re looking for. I can’t help you and you can’t help me if you can’t help yourself first._

  
  
A haze of tearful memories coloured her eyes and the soft chuckle that lifted from Emiliano’s throat snapped the teardrops at the corners of her heartstrings down to her chin. First, she chuckled, harshly caught in a thick inhale from her easily congested nose. Then a thick level of laughter, not hysterical and not maniacal, but hearty, the tears sprinkling every so often, and he followed, both of them wiping with their knuckles at whatever vestige of their soul’s tearful spring had left to offer. 

  
  
“Some days, when I visit her, I think about all of the many times I tried to escape to the richezza  _(wealth)_  everything out of here offerte  _(offered)_. Oh,” he chuckled from his stomach, memory now sitting on his lips and sinking into the lines of smile; “Oh, I would chase after wealth the way young boys eseguire dopo onorevoli gonne  _(run after ladies skirts)_  these days, appassionato e sete  _(passionate and thirsty)_  for what I thought would make me felice, il contenuto.”  _(happy, content.)_

  
  
“No matter what country or culture you live in, every uomo e ragazzo  _(boy and man)_  is just the same way,” she murmured, eyes back on the river, mirth strangled back with her bitterness. 

  
  
“Sì, per alcune persone, ci vuole tempo per vedere ciò che è reale richezza.”  _(Yes, for some people, it takes time to see what is real wealth.)_

  
  
“Sì, e alcune persone semplicemente non rendersi conto, sempre.”  _(Yes, and some people simply do not realize, ever.)_

  
  
This time it was his moment to turn and offer a glance at his companion, curious in mind but thoughtful in features; she continued to monotonously stare at the amiable waves lapping against each other, nature swaying with each breath she took. Her hurt, whatever pain she suffered, burrowed deep within her, was now sitting on her sleeve, if only for a moment, and he saw more of her soul, beautiful and raw, peering back at him and whispering for healing touches. 

  
  
Tentatively, he moved closer to her and then, smile permanent and welcoming, offered her his fishing pole. 

  
  
Her eyebrows arched, her hurt flashing away in a moment of confusion and intrigue. 

  
  
“Try, bella, it will help your heart.” 

  
  
Although her eyebrows remained furrowed, and her hands tentative in their acceptance of the gift he offered, she nodded her assent to his allaying dictum. 

  
  
At first, her thrust of the pole was wavering, unsteady and unsure, but he softly placed his hand on hers and pulled her arm back without much force, then helped show her how to launch the wire forward. The little hook bobbed at the top of the water, splashing further out in her second attempt with his help than she thought possible. 

  
  
The next evening, when she arrived, he had two fishing poles, one laid out for her to take. 

  
  
“Ho inteso a chiedere, perché i pesci di notte?”  _(I have to ask, why do you fish at night?)_ She launched her fishing pole’s end with a flick of her wrist, the prior night’s practice aiding her having it fly far enough. “Non ho mai tu vedervi qualunque pesca di cattura, se si cattura qualsiasi.” _(I never see any fish you catch, if you catch any.)_  Her curiousness coated over whatever rude aspects such a question would usually have, given in such an abrasively honest way, but Emiliano had long since grown accustom to her honesty, and found satisfaction knowing it was a new leaf for her. 

  
  
“I do not fish for anything but pace.”  _(...peace.)_  He tucked his hand back as the pole thrust forward, the wire swiveling before landing. 

  
  
“Pace?” _(Peace?)_  She dug a small but sturdy hole for the edge of her pole in the mud and settled it between her legs, her childlike nature causing him to bask in the lack of fatherhood he had in his life. 

  
  
“Sì, pace, bella.”  _(Yes, peace, beautiful.)_ He sat beside her, catching the breeze between his teeth before it caught her curiosity in the swarm of thick curls around her head, shadowing her intrigue. “I do not fish for fish, bella, you see?” 

  
  
She couldn’t understand him, as though suddenly their difference in native tongues was causing a breach in their usual understanding of one another. Although her inhibitions had long since been relieved of their nature in her soul, her need for noticeable logic seemed precedent enough to cause her distress in developing a knowledge of what he was implying to her. His laugh called her to attention again.

  
  
“Do not think on it, bella; you will see nel tempo.”  _(...over time.)_  A laugh followed and he shook his head, wisdom prevailing over her, disregarding whatever logic and intelligence she may have possessed. 

  
  
They sat like this, for many nights, talking about his times as a child, as a lad, as a mischievous youth, as a mischievous man, as a husband, as a lover, as a friend and on some occasions, when their reflections managed to settle on their current state, he would tell her of his new found adoration of being a father.

  
  
“My wife was incapace di avere figli,”  _(...incapable of having children)_  he started, once, when the moon was barely existent and they’d long since left their fishing poles in the muddy banks. They often took to lying side-by-side, inches a part, surveying the heavens. She had glimpsed at him then, saddened.

  
  
“Mi dispiace tanto, Emiliano.”  _(I am so sorry, Emiliano.)_  She placed her hand on his left arm, eyes warm and watery, gazing at a man who had become as a father to her in their short time together. His right hand gingerly soothed hers and she shuffled as to place her head on his broad shoulder.

  
  
“Do not be sad for me, bella.” His right hand met with her chin and he tilted her face, his eyes finding hers immediately, wide and loving and warm. “Per tu sei la mia figlia, la figlia del mio cuore.”  _(For you are my daughter, the daughter of my heart.)_

  
  
As a sudden warmth spread over every fiber of her being, sank into every inch of her skin, she felt tears spring at the corners of her eyes and they embraced, his chin on top of her head as without warning, sobs racked her lithe body; his arms were the warmth she dove deep into for safety, his heart was the coven in which she finally found healing.

  
  
 _Parents, gone, forever. Can’t get them back. Neither can you, but we can be parents. We can start our own family – if only you would give it a chance._

  
  
“Just give it a chance, just give it a chance, just give it a chance,” became a mantra against Emiliano’s chest and he slowly helped pull his body up to a sitting position, her frame locked inside of his limbs, shuddering and writhing, a hurt non-physical in nature taking its toll on what was left of her handle on memories. “Please, just take a chance, take a chance, find this love, know this love, find this love, know this love, trust me, trust me, trust me, trust me…” 

  
  
Words became mumbles and mumbles became heaves and heaves became quieted breathing, control and release finally fitting together as the two puzzle pieces that had been long since parted and missing. Emiliano’s hand soothed her head and it was when she finally let herself hear all of the sounds around her that she realized he was singing, a somber baritone, inspiriting the well of her soul. 

  
  
_“Nana bobò,_   
_nana bobò,_   
_tutti i bambini dormene_   
_Guido no._   
  
_E dormi, dormi, dormi per un anno,_   
_La sanità a to padre poi il guadagno_   
  
_E dormi, dormi, dormi, bambin de cuna._   
_To mama no la gh’è la a-sé andà via_   
  
_Nana bobò,_   
_nana bobò,_   
_tutti i bambini dormene_   
_Guido no”_

  
  
“Grazie, Emiliano, grazie.”  _(Thank you, Emiliano, thank you.)_ She sniffled, softly, her body no longer moving, her eyes trained on his as the words fell to a whisper, only meant for her ears.

  
  
“Sei il benvenuto, bella, sei il benvenuto.”  _(You are welcome, beautiful, you are welcome.)_

  
  
The following day, she spent her time trying to decide whether or not sitting with Emiliano that evening would be prudent. Friendship turned to paternal love didn’t cause her any harm, nor did it worry her; she was frightened to face him after such a breakdown. Her heart whirred every time she thought of telling him her reasons for running in the first place, her disappointments in life, her urge to know that she could be happy, and her anger at the one man who kept her from finding that happiness. 

  
  
By the end of the day, after dinner and dancing and singing, she realized just how much she needed him, and just how it would do more harm to run away again than it would to stay and simply let it all be, as it were.

  
  
“Emiliano, circa la notte scorsa.”  _(Emiliano, about last night.)_

  
  
“Bella,” he started, handing her the pole he now brought for her regularly. “Non vi è nulla di sbagliato con te sento locazione.”  _(There is nothing wrong with letting yourself feel.)_  He touched her cheek with his palm, and the contact shifted whatever butterflies she had away to another land. 

  
  
“Grazie, grazie, grazie,” she murmured, clutching him in a hug. For a few moments, he held her, then pulled away, the fishing pole still an offering.

  
  
“Pesca, sì?”  _(Fishing, yes?)_

  
  
“Sì. But we never catch anything.” 

  
  
Emiliano waited to get settled, body melded into the grass, hat forlorn to his side, entire being meant for every moment spent in that spot, before he chose to speak.

  
  
“Bella,” he started, glancing at her. “When men fish, do they not mean to sustain themselves, in some way?” 

  
  
Having still be troubled by his reasons for fishing and lack of care for the actual sport, she nestled her pole in the ground and turned, curiosity etched on her features.

  
  
“Sì, they do.” 

  
  
He nodded his head, thoughtful for a moment. 

  
  
“When I came here, to fish, so long ago, it was my trade. This town valued the supply of fish I managed to reel in. Now, younger boys fish for this town, and it is no longer a necessity of mine to contribute as such to the town.” He paused, reeling in his wire and then flicking his wrist, relieving the tension once again. “By the time I had stopped as the local fisherman, my wife had passed, and I no longer had any companion outside of my work. Sì, I had the friends of the town, but I longed for what I needed most – a real companion.”

  
  
She leaned forward, again childlike and ready for whatever he offered her. 

  
  
“All I knew was fishing; I’d lost the desire to seek only wealth, for I no longer had anyone to share it with, and the wealth I had was of no use to me. So I would come here at night, angry at first, at everything, at la Luna, and il fiume  _(the river)_ , wishing I could have back what I’d cherished so much. And as time came and went, la Luna e il fiume became my companions.”

  
  
“Emiliano, I still don’t quite understand.” She felt his eyes on her, amused and hopeful. 

  
  
“I do not fish for fish, bella, I fish for company. And we have reeled one another in.” His smile met his eyes, his smiling wrinkles smothering his face in the felice, and il contenuto they both embraced. “Vede?”  _(See?)_

  
  
“Sì, vede.” 

  
  
“So, now, I think it is time, bella.” He turned to face her, fishing pole long forgotten. She matched him, sitting forward, still unsure. “It is time you tell me, why you’ve been running so long.”

  
  
With a deep breath, she let everything that had been real and raw emotion the night before translate into the truth she’d been suffering from. 

  
  
“Where I am from, there was a war. It was long, and hard fought, but truth and love always find their way to the surface in the end, and we had our victory. I first found love with a friend of mine, a childhood friend, but time would only soon tell that friendship was indeed the only extent of our relationship’s needs. I wasn’t broken, not like I am now.” Her phrases were slow, practiced, in broken Italian; she stuttered. She looked to him, and he nodded, continue, continue. Her eyes sank. “I started to help rebuild what we’d lost. Life had taken some nasty turns for all of us, and everyone needed to pick up and move on. It was difficult. There was so much loss to deal with; so much pain I couldn’t fathom. I thought I found love in someone who knew what I knew, who had the pain that I had; but he let go of me before he let go of his hatred and anger.

  
  
“One evening we were being honest with one another about a fight we’d had earlier in the day, and suddenly a cold front came between us and he was a wall I couldn’t climb, a barrier I couldn’t breach, and no words and no emotions seemed to get through to him. For days and days, the way he treated me turned less in love and more in hatred, and for him I was willing to spend every moment with in hope of something that could break the mould of the pain of war and loss, but I simply turned into his ventilation system.”

  
  
Her body instinctively started to crumple to her chest and her cold feet dug into the sopping mud of the ground. 

  
  
“I took every ounce of it, every word, every syllable, every hurtful thought, in the hope that one day it would all be gone, and there would only be a needing, hurting form ready to grow underneath. But time strengthened his exterior of hurt and anger, and my closest friends refused to talk with me as long as I let myself willingly sit by him and simply be hurt, so when the moment came for me to stand up for myself, I had no where to run but away. 

  
  
“And away I ran.”

  
  
Emiliano cupped her face, his thumb slowly rotating over her cheek soothingly before he pulled her into the welcoming embrace she’d never forget. 

  
  
“You can stop running now.” 

  
  
Two days later Emiliano passed away. One of his neighbors had stopped by for their daily walk through a nearby vineyard, and with no need for locks, welcomed himself into his friend’s home.

  
  
She found out at dinner, just before she was going to leave to meet with him. 

  
  
“Ci mancherà lui, Emiliano. Lui e la sua storie.”  _(We will miss him, Emiliano. He and his stories.)_  Iliana was pulling what was left of their meal from the oven and, taken aback at the way they spoke of him, Hermione stopped in the doorway to look at Iliana and her family.

  
  
“Che cosa è successo?”  _(What happened?)_

  
  
“Emiliano passed away, Hermione,” Iliana said, her face drawn to a sad close at the end of the statement. 

  
  
Before her body and soul could react, a knock at the door brought attention to Iliana’s oldest son, Antonio, who was holding two fishing poles. 

  
  
“Hermione! Hermione, scusami, questi sono per voi.”  _(Excuse me, these are for you.)_

  
  
She took the fishing poles gracefully, eyes welled with tears ready to break at any moment, and she glanced once to her friends before disappearing into the night, the crescent moon guiding her path to the river bank. 

  
  
For three days, she ate nothing, said nothing and did nothing else other than sit, and fish, and lay her soul at the bank of the river, just as he had, just as he would want it. Except her destruction to herself wasn’t his desire, wasn’t his yearning for her – and she knew it, she knew it well. So after three days, and three nights, and moons and suns and passion and love and true love and all of the differences in between, she slept in her bed and ate with Iliana and grew back the heart Emiliano had reminded her she still had, regardless of her pain. 

  
  
Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months and yet she refused to stop fishing at night, knowing that her companion the moon would offer her the solace it once offered Emiliano through his years. Every night she brought two fishing poles, and every night she fished alone.

  
  
After a glass of wine and a home-cooked dinner her friend’s at home would envy one evening, she disappeared to her spot, fishing pole in hand, ready for another long date with her true love, the moon, when another pale visage met her gaze before the beaming light of hope. 

  
  
“It _is_ you, oh Merlin, it really is you.” He was swaying with the breeze and the water and the trees and even the moon seemed to favor him with her light, and all of the anger and hurt she should’ve felt was lost when she’d tried to run away from his heart, and instead ran away from hers. 

  
  
“Sì, Draco, mi è.”  _(Yes, it’s me.)_

  
  
They stood, breaths apart with the glancing of fishing poles separating their hearts. She nodded, very subtly, then simply slid to her seat, the two poles at her side. 

  
  
His guilt and sorrow filled his gaze and matched his steps as he walked and sat beside her, eyes never leaving her form, ‘sorry’ swelling on his tongue like a remedy for breathing; every ounce of his being told her that he’d finally realized how to stop and find solutions instead of just stopping to find problems. Before words came to his lips, she looked at him, a knowing smile and wisdom sitting in the very few wrinkles she had framing her face. His smile told her all the sorry she needed to hear.

  
  
“You’re fishing?” He asked, breaking the silence.

  
  
She handed him a fishing pole, a smile in her words. “Sì, come sempre.”  _(Yes, as always.)_

 

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this four years ago, for a dmhgficexchange on lj, under the username constantbedhead, so if it seems at all familiar, i swear i'm not biting, it really is me. the prompt was for a pinch-hit, so i took it and i still to this day don't think i quite did it justice, but it was a pleasure to write.
> 
> also, all translation credit goes to [eucalyptus](http://eucalyptus.livejournal.com/) on lj.


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